


Friday

by CristinaSea



Category: Actor RPF, Harry Styles - Fandom, Timothée Chalamet - Fandom
Genre: AU, Fiction, M/M, Paris - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-14 12:51:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19273720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CristinaSea/pseuds/CristinaSea
Summary: Boy meets boy. Boy gets boy.





	1. Part 1 - It rained that morning

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance. I haven’t done any creative writing since high school. Look at it as an experiment. Be gentle please.
> 
> ForYou_InSilence, morganwolfe I have no words. Thank you is inadequate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy meets boy

It rained that morning. Someone had moved the piano under the portico, disrupting the normal flow of movement down the busy passage. All morning, knapsacks and messenger bags bumped against the old maple and spruce wood, already banged up from years of hard playing. Jean-clad legs scraped against the bench with its threadbare needlepoint cushion. More often than not, someone would run their fingers down the length of the keys or play a quick scale, pressing lightly and quickly. Not unexpected, given this was a music school.

The rain let up at noon and by mid-afternoon the watery sunshine had coaxed out a student or two, inviting them to sit on the stone benches in the ancient herb garden. There were no classes on Friday afternoon, so the cloisters were ideal for concentration. Heads down, fingers gripping pencils, earbuds firmly in place. _Was that in A minor? Should it be?_

Focused on their assignments, the students would not have heard keys picking out the melody of a Bach prelude. They would not have caught the pause of a note held too long. They would have missed the moment the piece switched over to a four-hand ragtime tune. They would not have heard the low chuckles at the end, the quick exhale of quiet laughter. Neither the aspirated H nor the accent aigu were noted by anyone. No one witnessed numbers scribbled down on hastily ripped notebook paper, much less the lingering brush of fingers during the exchange.

At 4:00 the soft misty rain started again, driving the students back under the colonnade. By now the February evening was encroaching and the stone benches made vague pale splotches among the shadowed rosemary. Perhaps one or two students would sit at the piano to wait out the rain. Perhaps, still caught up in their music, one would play an arpeggio. And perhaps the other would jazz up a bassline. Perhaps they would introduce themselves and agree to have an aperitif in the bistro beside the river. It was Friday night after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Part 1 - A week passed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 202 area code

A week passed before the weather warmed above frigid temperatures.

“Harry here.”

“Hey. _Bonjour._ It’s Tim - Timothée. We ..ah.. played Bach .. sort of.. a week ago.”

“Right! The 202 area code.”

“Yeah, uhm.. I kept it just because I have this phone-”

“Tell me in person. With a beverage in hand. It’s why you called, right?”

“Cool, cool. Yeah.. uhm.. how about in an hour at the brasserie Métro?”

“An hour? Did you think I was ready to go out and was just waiting for you to call?”

“What-?”

“Because I was. Waiting for you to call. I interrupted the Bach. It’s your move now.”

“Wait-”

“See you in an hour. I’ll be the one with flowers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. Part 1 - The first time Harry saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light

The first time Harry saw Tim’s apartment, he had had to devise a crafty strategy. 

“Come on, you know I can’t just take a dump in any old _toilette.”_ He emphasized the last word and said it in the French way. They were speaking English, as they always did with each other. “Besides, we’re closer to your place than to mine.”

Tim was nothing if not practical and pragmatic. 

In the end, he hadn’t really needed the subterfuge. A cloud burst over Paris and despite huddling in the recess of a shop door (and stealing kisses), they still got wet and Tim needed dry clothes after.

Five flights up with no lift. Ninety eight steps. 

“It’s a great deterrent. I haven’t really had anybody up here since I moved.”

Harry knew Tim would be watching his reaction, could practically feel the anxiety wafting off him. He hugged Tim from behind while he worked on the locks, nuzzling the dark curls and blowing into his ear, satisfied when he heard him giggle. Harry paid attention and knew everywhere Tim was extra-sensitive.

They stepped into .. _light._ Skylights broadcast the midday sun, bright now that the storm had passed. Shafts of natural light glowed on mostly bare, white walls. Paint had been applied randomly onto the tall windowpanes, giving the illusion of stained glass. White light splintered and refracted, creating rainbows, colors spilling across pale floors. In the center of the room was a workbench with remnants of paints the same shades as those on the windows.

“My god. You did this?”

Tim shrugged, ducking his head but not before Harry saw the shy smile and the gleam of pride in his eyes.

“You did! It’s brilliant!” Harry gestured at the windows, eyes wide with delight, taking it all in. He moved across the space, drawn to the radiance pouring in from the skylights.

Dotting the walls were vintage movie posters in all languages, even now their original colors vibrant and rich against the white walls. On a low table beneath one of the windows sat a turntable, a record still on the platter. _Paul Simon._ Record albums leaned up against the table legs, buttressed by a small tower of CDs. The one on top a swirl of pinks and oranges and blues. Everywhere, on the floor along the walls, were piles of books. Harry knelt, breathing in slowly, reading the creased spines. _Rumi. Rob Sheffield. Pessoa._

So, this is how it happens, he thought. A passage from Hamlet flashed through his mind, remnants of his arts-focused education.

_Give me that man..and I will wear him  
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart.._

Tim’s eyes had never been greener.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. Part 1 - Harry had a room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butterfly wings

Harry had a room above the patisserie. Tim loved waking up to the smell of freshly baked bread. The morning light always had a dim dusty quality, as if the ghosts of centuries of flour lingered in the crevices of the bleached wood floors and rough walls. More likely it seemed dusty because it really was dusty, Harry being Harry. There was no kitchen as Harry had the run of the one downstairs, but there was a corner table for an electric kettle, tins of tea, and (at Tim’s insistence) a little bag of coffee and a press.

“Water’s on.” Tim loved waking to Harry’s morning voice. Low and hoarse but light. Harry was a creature of light. Unendingly kind. Always ready with a hug and a dimpled smile. The first time, Tim made Harry smile just so he could dip his tongue into the little divot.

He turned his head now, eyes searching for Harry’s familiar form and finding him smiling back at him from where he was sat on the yellow chintz armchair by the window. He watched as Harry stood and stretched, slowly turning, knowingly showing off for Tim. Smooth shoulders limned by sunshine. Stomach muscles clenching as his torso twisted. With a wicked grin shot over his shoulder, he quickly shucked off his boxers, before making his way to the bed. Shadows played across tattoos, fluttering butterfly wings as warm arms reached for Tim.

Tim loved the warmth of Harry’s skin. He ran hot while Tim always felt colder than everyone else. At night, he begged to be the little spoon and relished the feeling of being cocooned. Now, he shifted and turned into Harry’s embrace, closing his eyes and humming in appreciation and anticipation. _I love this,_ he thought. _I love all this because I love **him.**_ He had never thought it before, but it felt right. _I need to tell him. I **want** to tell him._

“Harry,” Tim whispered, opening his eyes. Harry was watching him, a thumb gently brushing Tim’s jaw, the dimple barely making an appearance. Harry nodded slowly, his green-grey eyes glowing softly.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	5. Part 2 - I was enjoying my second cup of coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diner

I was enjoying my second cup of coffee of the day. Tim had just shared the exciting news that he had got a call-back for a part in the latest film of a hot, new director. A large party came in then and with a cheerful grin he headed over to seat them. It was Monday. Another batch of Hollywood hopefuls, drawn like moths to a flame. 

In my profession, it helped to stay in touch with the rhythms and accents of people and conversations. I liked to come for breakfast at the diner across from the Greyhound Station in North Hollywood. I would sit by the window at the back of the long room, with a view of the door and the station. From my table, I had seen countless passengers emerge into the Southern California morning sunshine, eyes bleary and blinking. Inevitably, many found their way to the diner, where I would listen to dreams spoken of in drawls, clipped accents, soft esses, or rolling r’s. Sometimes, I would hear stories of people running away from something, someone, somewhere. But always, there was the underlying hope that Hollywood would deliver a happy ending.

A young man came in and sat in the booth in front of me. Alone. Facing me. Just this act would have caught my attention. People who come in by themselves usually sit with their backs to the occupied booths and face the door. But he was nervous too. His restless motions drawing my eyes. He fidgeted with the table menu, glanced out the window, turned his head to look around the diner. At some point he pulled out a cap and put it on. He had an attractive face, good-natured, with a wide mouth. Green eyes. His brown hair was fairly long around his nape and curly, which he pushed behind his ears with quick flicks of his hands. I could see tattoos and rings on his fingers. He seemed to be waiting for something, 

Tim made his way back to my corner, topping up coffees on the way, stopping to say something to brighten up somebody’s day. A beautiful person, inside and out.

“Morning. What can I get you?” he asked in his friendly voice as he approached this stranger. 

“Just a coffee, please.” The stranger sounded British but not with the accent one hears on BBC newscasts.

I _know_ Tim. He stopped at the stranger’s table and poured his coffee. Then he looked at him and — well, I didn’t need to see his face to know something was wrong. I could read the tension in his fine shoulders, in his stiff spine.

He said, “How are you, Harry?” in a voice I’d only heard from him once before. A drunken call at two a.m. on New Year’s Eve years ago to somebody else’s voice mail.

The stranger nodded once and said, “How are you, Tim?” His eyes looked as broken as Tim’s voice.

When Tim didn’t answer, the other man reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills. “How much do I owe you?”

Tim’s hand was on top of Harry’s before the words were even out of his mouth. That’s when I saw it. Matching rings.

“It’s on me.”

“No, I can’t do that,” It was a polite protest, but I heard something else. There was history behind this exchange.

“It’s only coffee, Harry.” It sounded like other things were owed, perhaps.

In a burst of movement, Harry slid out of the booth and rushed out. I watched him stride down the street, cardigan flapping, until he was out of sight. A quick glance at Tim told me all I needed to know at that moment.

“Anton!” I called to the man behind the counter. “Tim is on break for the next fifteen minutes.” 

Anton looked over and he must have seen something too, because he frowned and said, “Make it thirty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	6. Part 3 - They had cleared one end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebration

_Thank you for your application ... we are pleased to inform you..._

They had cleared one end of the workbench to make room for meals when they stayed at Tim’s. Harry saw the letter as he was putting out plates and flatware. It lay open, set aside carelessly. _Pilchuck Glass School. Washington state._

He was happy for him. He really was. How often had he heard Tim talk about glassmaking and the wizardry of Dale Chihuly, the school’s founder and world-acclaimed glass artist. Tim must have been over the moon when he got the letter.

“Harry! Dinner at my place tonight. I’m opening a special bottle of wine.” Harry had wondered at the breathlessness in Tim’s voice when he had listened to the message earlier. Yes, Tim would have been ecstatic.

As ecstatic as he himself had been when he got the job in the kitchens of the brilliant chef Alain Passard. Under his ownership, l’Arpège had earned three Michelin stars within the first ten years and had maintained them since. Passard was one of Harry’s idols and to work in a restaurant with a reputation like Arpège was a dream come true. _It was also in Paris._

Harry looked at the letter again. As if from a distance, he noticed that his hands were shaking. _Washington state._ He closed his eyes. Behind him, he heard Tim chopping something, then the clink of utensils against glass. A salad, he though abstractly. Mundane sounds. Domestic sounds. Life sounds. _Sounds of their shared life._

“What do you want to listen to tonight?” Tim put an open bottle of wine on the table.

“America, Tim?” He hated how rough his voice suddenly sounded. He didn’t want to be _that_ person.

“What — hey, hey!” Tim’s palms were cool on his face. His fingers long, their pads rough from working with sharp edges. “What’s this? Tears, Harry?”

Harry shook his head and pressed his nose into the crook of Tim’s neck, breathing him in. “I’m so happy for you, Tim.”

 _I’ll miss you_ he thought. But the words were inadequate. Miss was something you say when you were too slow and didn’t catch the Metro Line 1. It was something you say when you aimed for something and didn’t quite make it. How could it possibly encompass the black hole that Tim would leave behind? He tightened his embrace, memorizing the way his hands spanned the slender waist, the warmth of Tim’s skin under his jumper.

“Shhhhh, shhhh, _mon coeur_ ,” Tim slid his fingers through Harry’s curls, lightly massaging his scalp. He gently tugged his head back, searching Harry’s face, his eyes.

“I’m thrilled that they even considered me. But who am I kidding? I don’t have the money to move to Washington. And the tickets to fly back and forth.. ridiculous!” Timmy smiled (the one that started in his eyes, became a crinkle on his nose, before stretching over his mouth, and ultimately warming Harry from the inside out). “I also got an offer for an apprenticeship to work on the Notre Dame windows. It’s a different kind of glass but it’s also in Paris.”

They fit each other perfectly, Tim and he. Shoulders to shoulders. Hips to hips. Lips to lips.

“Let’s do something grand to really celebrate,” Tim said later, lifting his tousled head from Harry’s chest. 

“Like what?” Harry lazily twirled one of Tim’s many curls around his finger, rubbing the silky tendril, damp now from sweat.

“Let’s get married.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. Part 3 - Harry loved Open Mic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oasis

Harry loved Open Mic night at The English Pub. Tonight there was an actual band to sing along with and Harry had been in close consultation with them during the set break. Tim often thought that it strange that Harry chose to work in the kitchens behind the scenes when he clearly loved being in front of an audience.

“Right, mates. It’s the Queen’s birthday so I’ll be doing all British songs tonight.” Tim smiled, watching Harry tuck his shirt into his favorite pair of floral trousers (the same ones he had worn on their first date). There was a two song maximum but Harry acted like he had the whole set to himself.

“As always, this song is for you.” Tim raised his pint in response to Harry’s blown kiss.

      _It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside_

      _I’m not one of those who can easily hide.._

“Dude, you’re blushing,” Stephane teased him. “It’s not like you haven’t been together for years now.”

Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Three years. Not such a long time.” He touched his ring briefly. “And only married for a year.”

“You wear your emotions on your face, my friend. I guess that’s why you’re such a great actor.Never acted opposite someone as generous. You made the right decision to come back to drama school when your apprenticeship fell through,” Stephane continued. “You’re the best in the program.”

_Thank you for your application... we are pleased to inform you..._

Tim had found the letter wedged between the pages of a Saul Bellow novel that morning, while looking for his old drama school notes. Why hadn’t he thrown it away? For a split second, the question crossed his mind whether he could still make a go at it. It’s only been a year. And just as immediately he chased the thought away. Harry was here. In Paris.

On stage, Harry had moved on to Wonderwall and was finishing his two song limit to boisterous applause.

      _Maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me_

      _And after all, you’re my wonderwall_

The next performer jumped up onto the platform, put an arm around Harry, and whispered something. Harry grinned broadly, his dimples flashing. Tim knew what that meant, another song. He settled back with his drink, charmed, as always, by anything Harry did. (He was now leading the room in a rousing rendition of Don’t Look Back in Anger.)

No matter what, Tim knew he was the audience that Harry performed for. He sang to him and something in Tim opened up. Whatever music there was in Harry, Tim would always be there to listen to it. And to dance to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. Part 3 - Dawn. Just barely.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunshine

Dawn, just barely. Having worked in pastries for the majority of his working life, Harry’s circadian rhythm was now tied to the opening of bakeries in time for morning repasts. No matter how late he went to bed the night before, he always woke up at 5:00 in the morning. These days, with the band, more often than not, he would wake tired and achy. And happy. _Fulfilled_. On his days off from the restaurant, Harry would try to sleep in, but he would still awaken at dawn and no matter how much he tried, he could never go back to sleep. Those mornings were his favorite. Like today.

Tim slept like a log and Harry relished waking him up. He reveled in the differences and the sameness between them. The rough rasp as he slid his calf along Tim’s hairier one. Although Tim seemed slighter, he was all wiry strength. Lean muscles flowing under smooth skin. Harry scooted down on the bed, pulling the sheet over him - a cocoon for just the two of them. He breathed in deeply, intoxicated by the unique smell of their bed. The musk of the _harrytim_ beast. Beneath the blankets, in the warm semi-darkness, Harry watched how his hand caressed and curved around the pale globes of Tim’s ass. He leaned in and ran his tongue softly up the slight indentation of Tim’s spine, pressed his lips to the base of his neck. Harry slipped his hand over Tim’s groin, humming at the hardness he found there, pleased at the way Tim pushed back and rubbed up against him.

“Good morning,” his lips nuzzled Tim’s earlobe.

“Mmmmmmorning.” Tim’s breath held the remnants of last night’s wine mixed with traces of their toothpaste and mouthwash. His tongue curled around Harry’s and flickered across the roof of Harry’s mouth. He turned fully onto his back, drawing Harry closer. Harry loved this first contact of chest to chest, the arousing glide of skin, warm and taut. “What time is it?”

“Does it matter?” Harry decided to explore the crevices of Tim’s clavicle.

Tim’s breath shuddered. “Not really, but after last night..”

Tim’s mobile chirped. Harry looked up. Tim’s eyes popped open. Pupils wide, excitement and nervousness mixing in with arousal. Harry smiled ruefully, “Go on, then. Pick up. Let’s hear what they say.”

Tim thrust the phone at Harry without looking at it. “You take it. Tell me what it says.”

Harry glanced at the screen and couldn’t stop the delighted smile from breaking across his face. “It’s from Brian. Doesn’t he ever sleep?”

“He’s my agent. And in New York. What did he say?” Tim’s voice was tight, his fingers restless, pleating the bed linen.

Harry clasped his hand and kissed the intertwined fingers. With his other hand, he thumbed down the phone screen. “He sent a link... _English-language theatre goers in Paris have a lot to be excited for this season. Timothée Chalamet disappears completely into his role as Tom Wingfield in the new production of the iconic Tennessee Williams play The Glass Menagerie. French television viewers who expect to see Timothée Chalamet as the juvenile delinquent from his recurring role in the police drama Le Quartier will be in for an unexpected treat. Balancing humor with tenderness, Chalamet’s performance wrings your heart while never straying into melodrama. The role was perfect as a theatrical debut and to showcase the range and intelligence of this impressive new talent. Don’t be surprised to see his name on marquees on the West End as well as across Paris._ ”

The phone chirped again and Harry handed it over, his eyes gleaming with pride.

Tim looked at the callerID, grabbed a t-shirt off the floor beside the bed, and swiped across his screen. “ _Salut_ Papa, Momma!”

Harry rested his chin on Tim’s belly, content to watch his face, to read the parade of emotions - all variations of happiness. Harry treasured the moments when Tim was so happy that he positively burst with it and radiated pure joy. More so whenever Harry was the source of that joy. When Tim beamed his luminous, radiant smile at him, then Harry felt he could do anything. Promote peace. Spread kindness. Create music.

He wanted to bottle it or capture it. To share with the whole world Tim’s delight with life. Instead he did the next best thing. Harry grabbed his own mobile, snapped a photo, and posted it to Instagram. _My_ ☀️.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	9. Part 3 - Harry juggled the umbrella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That

Harry juggled the umbrella and the small grocery bag as he let himself into the apartment. He put his things down on the work bench-table in the middle of the space. Grey light filtered in through the skylights and the stained glass added a dim glow along the walls. The street noise was dulled considerably up here. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smells: orange dishwashing soap, lemony detergent. Tim must have done a load of laundry last night. Harry loved coming home.

“Harry,” Tim’s voice behind him interrupted his reverie.

Harry opened his eyes and turned around, the familiar warmth stealing over him. Tim was by the refrigerator, a glass of orange juice in his hand. Harry must have walked right by him. Harry smiled andpulled a full bottle of juice from the grocery bag and crossed to the tiny galley kitchen. “I picked up a fresh bottle on the way home.”

He frowned when Tim brushed past him to stand by the door. Harry studied Tim carefully. Tonight was closing night of his latest play. As far as he knew, it was going really well. “Tim? Is everything ok?”

Tim nodded, then shook his head, eyes on the floor, breath hitching. Concerned, Harry took a step toward him, only to stop as Tim raised a hand to ward him off. Tim raised his eyes and Harry’s blood ran cold at what he saw there. _No. No no no no no._

“Where are you, Harry? I miss you.” The words came out as a whisper.

“Tim. You know the shows end late and by the time we get the equipment out, it’s early morning. I don’t want to wake you. I know how exhausted you are at night.”

“I don’t care how late it is. I always want you to come home and sleep with me.”

“What is this about, Tim? You know there isn’t anybody else. I love _you_.” Dread was squeezing its icy tentacles around his stomach.

Tim shook his head slowly. Sadly. “It isn’t about that. I know there isn’t anybody else. That’s the problem. There isn’t even me. We hardly ever see each other. You’re almost never home anymore. There’s nothing left for _us_.“

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Tim raised his hand again. “No, Harry. Please just let me say this. I love you but I’m not doing this anymore.”

_Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop_

“I love acting and I’m good at it and maybe I never would have found out if I hadn’t given up glass. But the point is I gave up glass. For you. I turned down the show in London because you didn’t want me to leave. But you went and did that summer tour last year. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled for you and I’m glad you did It. But it feels like I’m constantly giving up something for you, yet you’re never around for the things that matter to me. It is all about you, Harry. It always has been.”

Every word buffeted Harry. His limbs were so cold that they felt numb. He tried to get his tongue to say something but his brain was stuck in a loop of _No_ and _Stop_ and _Please_.

Tim was relentless. “You mean everything to me. You are my world, Harry. I made you my life.That’s on me. But I think I need to live _my_ life now. I’m flying out to Sacramento tonight after the show. Brian got me a part in an indie film. Pauline is taking over the apartment. I’m seeing Brian now then meeting her at the airport. Please be gone when we get back. Take whatever. You can come back for the rest after..”

Tim paused and took a deep breath. He looked at Harry and gave a forlorn little half-salute before turning toward the door.

“Tim,” Harry finally managed to get his voice to work. Tim stopped and turned back. Harry held out the umbrella. “Take the umbrella. It’s raining.”

It was more a crush of lips than a kiss. Spit and salt. Blood and tears. Desperation and regret.

His brain was screaming on hyperdrive _Don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t  go don’t go don’t _

“I love you, Harry. But I have to go.”

_go_

The door closed behind Tim. Harry leaned against the workbench as nausea overwhelmed him. He wanted to go after Tim, but his legs were rubber. Had he forced himself to, he would have seen that Tim had not gotten very far. At that very moment, he was sat at the top of the ninety-seventh step with his head between his hands, sobbing out his heartbreak. But Harry was vomiting into the toilet and Tim eventually pulled himself up and went to work.

Four and a half years. Gone in less than ten minutes. And that, as they say, was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	10. Part 4 - Three long years since

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweet creature

_Can we meet?_

Three long years since there was any sort of communication them. It had been a shock for Tim to hear that voice live yesterday - not on a screen or through the cold vacuum of voicemail. It had taken over a year but Tim no longer stopped to do a double take whenever he’d spot a head of chestnut curls or when he’d see a tatted arm. Yet that voice apparently still had the ability to stutter his heart.

Tim spotted the lone figure at the end of Santa Monica pier. He slowed his steps, drinking in the sight of Harry. For only a moment he allowed himself the simple joy of just being in Harry’s presence. _Remember this. Remember this moment. Remember him now. Remember everything._

He had gone into a mild panic the day he woke up and realized that he only had a hazy remembrance of their first meeting at the music school. Eight years, this year.

 

Harry waited at the end of the pier, oblivious to the beauty and crash of the waves. _What if Tim didn’t come?_ He couldn’t believe it when he had looked in through the windows of the diner and had seen Tim’s lean silhouette. Eight years since he sat on a piano bench and interrupted a Bach prelude. He would recognize Tim anywhere. His feet had propelled him through the door, his eyes had found an empty booth, and his body had sat him down. All the while his mind whispered _Tim. It’s Tim. It’s Tim!_

“Why did you leave?” Tim asked from behind him.

 

Harry turned and Tim drank in the smooth movement. Absently noting the additional tattoos, change in hairstyle, more expensive clothes. Sunglasses.

“Take them off,” he said, gesturing to the offending accessory, irrationally annoyed. Three years! The least he could do was show his eyes. Never mind that he himself was wearing them too. (California sunshine.)

“You first,” Harry nodded at Tim’s Ray-Bans, a smirk on his face.

Tim bit his lip, suppressing the urge to grin back. Some things didn’t change. “Same time then. On three. One..two..three.”

 

Harry had always thought that Tim’s green eyes were his most beautiful physical feature. He had spent hours watching Tim’s every thought play across his face, telegraphed always by his expressive eyes. Today they reflected the ocean below them - turbulent with depths Harry was no longer privy to. Still their allure was no less stronger. But it was much more than that. Despite the shorter hair and slightly broader frame, he was still _Tim_. Harry saw it in his eyes. The relief that washed over him was overwhelming in both its intensity and unexpectedness.

“I didn’t mean to run out. I didn’t even intend to come in. The studio is down the block. It was our first day of recording and I was out for a bit of fresh air. It was a random thing.” Harry paused and looked at Tim. But he had never hidden his feelings from Tim and he wasn’t going to start now.

“I looked in the window and you were pouring coffee. Next thing I knew I was in a booth, wondering what I was doing there. I mean, I know why I was there. You were there. But it was like.. a dream, you know?When you touched my hand, I - it was too much. And I got.. scared. So I ran.”

“Scared? Of what?” Harry remembered how Tim sometimes needed to know everything. How determined he could be. Harry could tell he wasn’t going to be let off the hook.

“Scared of messing up my chance to say I’m sorry.” Harry paused. Tim was still, listening intently.

“Yesterday was .. serendipity. I sat there wondering why. That maybe there was a reason. That maybe the universe had a plan. That this was my chance to at least try to .. I don’t know.. _heal_.. us. Even if doesn’t matter anymore.” Harry tried to look away, but his eyes were held by Tim’s.

“Then you came with the fucking coffee and said I didn’t owe you anything.” Harry took a deep breath. “But I do. I owe you an apology. I never got to say it. Tim, I am so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I didn’t see that I was taking and taking. And didn’t look to see what you needed. I’m sorry that I stopped you from doing what you really wanted. I assumed I knew but I was really taking you for granted. I’m sorry that we had to end things for me to see it. And most of all, I am so sorry that you got hurt.”

 

_Even if it doesn’t matter anymore._ Was it really was over then?And yet..Tim looked into Harry’s eyes. Feeling the same pain he saw in Harry’s eyes, heard in Harry’s voice. Tenderness welled up in him. “Is it ok to hug you?”

Harry’s arms were strong around him. Tight. His body recognized and remembered Harry’s. Tim inhaled his scent. He still used the same shower wash. (Tim sometimes bought it for himself.) Reluctantly, he stepped back. There were things that still needed to be said.

“Let’s go down to the beach,” he said, leading the way. Around them, the pier was starting to liven up as noon approached.

They walked in silence, separated by more than a foot of space. Connected nonetheless. Tim replayed Harry’s words in his head. Could there still be a chance for _something_? Don’t mess this up.

He paused on the sand and turned to Harry. “Thank you for the apology. It _does_ still matter. It matters to me. A lot was on me too. No one made me give up on the things I wanted.”

Harry shook his head, refusing to be absolved. “After you left I rode around on the Metro for hours, just thinking. Whenever you had a chance to do something that would take you away from me. I never said don’t do it, but my behavior did.”

Tim smiled sadly, “Well you did say _Please_ that one time about London.”

Harry winced at the memory.

“I had some growing up to do. Somewhere, I lost who I was. I was confident on the stage but off it, I didn’t really know who I was or what made me happy. I loved making you happy but when you weren’t around..” Tim turned away, remembering the boy he once was. The boys they once were.

 

Harry followed Tim’s lead. He let himself indulge in the simple joy of walking on a beach in warm weather. He let the sustained roar of the surf soothe him. Tim wanted to talk and Harry was in no rush for this meeting to end.

Tim paused and lifted his face up to the sun, eyes closed. An image flashed through Harry’s mind of Tim lifting his face up for a kiss, followed quickly by a stream of other images. Harry shook them off. What was he doing? Why drift into memories when reality was so much better? He admired the lean, lithe figure in front of him. It had felt so _right_ in his embrace earlier.

“I’ve followed your career. Seen every one of your films and tried to watch anything I could find of the plays on YouTube. You really are impressive. Can I say that I’m so proud of you?And so happy for you.”

Tim shrugged, still feeling the sun in his face. “They are mainly small parts now but with directors and actors I respect. I actually just had a call back from an audition for a pretty meaty role.”

He angled his head and looked at Harry with a small smile, pride in his voice. “I really want it and I know I can bring out the _humanity_ in it.”

Deep, deep affection and love filled Harry. Here was the Tim he fell in love with and the Tim he would catch glimpses of — all that potential realized. At that moment, Tim was so unbearably beautiful to him. Hopeful, optimistic, positive. Confident.

He wanted to know everything that had happened in Tim’s life since their separation. “How are your parents? And Pauline? Catch me up on what I don’t see in the tabloids.”

They both laughed because Tim was never in the tabloids and Harry always was.

Tim turned and resumed their walk. As Tim talked about his family Harry watched his face, familiarizing himself again with the easy display of emotions, the eloquent mouth. Noticing new laugh lines. New frown lines.

 

“The first year I was out here I worked on everything Brian threw at me. I was so lonely and I just wanted to work and get out of my own head. Brian had understood. He’d sent scripts and work my way - stories about people finding themselves. I guess living in someone’s story helped me know what I wanted and helped me find the courage to accept that .. to accept this incredible gift of talent, to accept that my life is in acting and that I could not give it up .. loneliness may be a constant.” Tim stopped. He looked at Harry, tried to convey how important that last bit was. In Harry’s eyes, he saw nothing but kindness and understanding.

“But I’ve made friends along the way. Good friends. I made really good friends with the actors in that movie I made in Sacramento. That’s how I met my roommate. When I decided to stay in LA, we found an apartment together. It’s cool. LA and Hollywood can be a cold place and the industry can mess with your self-image. So it’s good to have someone to keep you grounded, you know?”

Harry’s smile was twisted, “I’m irrationally jealous but I’m glad that you had someone..”

Tim took a deep breath and held it. “What about you? Catch me up on what I don’t see in the tabloids..... are you really with someone?”

 

So, they were at this point then, now? Harry looked into Tim’s eyes, saw the wariness there. “No...but I was. You probably saw it. I —”

Tim waved his hand, stopping the rest of Harry’s sentence. He interrupted quickly, distaste crossing his face, “I was too. A couple of times. I tried..”

Harry forced his face to stay neutral despite the sudden sharp pain in his chest. Knowing they needed to talk through this didn’t make it any less difficult or repugnant.

“He didn’t smell right,” Harry said. “I packed one of your undershirts that day. I always wondered, in movies, why characters smelt other people’s clothes.”

He gave a faint smile. “Now I know why.”

Harry took a deep breath. He couldn’t put it off any longer. The question that had been swirling around in his head since Tim touched his hand yesterday and Harry had felt the smooth silver against his own fingers.

He took off his ring and put it in the palm of his hand. “Are we still married?”

“Do you still want to be?” Tim countered. It was one of the few times that Harry couldn’t read Tim even if he met his eyes squarely.

“I do, yes,” he whispered, his throat too tight for him to speak any louder. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

 

Tim looked at the silver ring on Harry’s palm. Thinking back to the way things had been.

“We can’t go back to the way it was,” he said, looking at Harry.

Harry nodded. “I wouldn’t want to. We’d be right back here again. There are things we need to do differently - I need to do differently. I made music because of you, for you, to you. When you left it was the hardest fucking thing to do to sing feel good songs. But I learned to be my own cheerleader. And I think I have some good songs in me, that I would want to share with you. If you want to listen.”

Tim closed Harry’s hand over the ring and covered it with his own. “I thought you made the best of me meaningful and I realize that’s unfair to you and me. I want to be there for you, support you, but not because my happiness depends on yours. I need to be happy in my own life and my own career, so I can support you as a whole person.” Tim paused and said gently, “I learned this the hard way and I don’t want to go back to that, Harry.”

Harry put his other hand on top of Tim’s, warming it. “You will always have my support in whatever you want to do, Tim. Do you think there’s a way forward for us? Can we figure this out together? Do you want to give us another try?”

Tim studied Harry’s face. So dear to him, even after all this time apart. Searched his eyes and saw _his_ Harry. Kind, sincere, genuine.

He nodded, “I do.” He traced a line on Harry’s forehead, smoothing it away. “This is new. I regret not being there to see these wrinkles.”

“There will be more.” Harry’s smile warmed Tim more deeply than the California sunshine.

Tim disengaged his hand from Harry’s and picked up the wedding ring. Looked at the vows they had had engraved on the inside of it all those years ago. He’s looked at those same words many times on his own ring. _Two hearts, one home._ He kissed it and put it back on Harry’s finger.

“This is the point where we kiss,” he said.

“ _Sorry_!” Someone shouted. A Frisbee landedat their feet, jolting them apart. With a rueful sigh, Harry picked it up and walked it back to the owners, their dog at their feet. Their words carried back to Tim. _Thanks, man_ and _Peace and love, brother._ Tim smiled. He liked that. _Peace and love, brother._

He watched Harry turn back but his path was blocked by a group of young men strolling past, exuberant and fearless. One of them did a double take and took a step away as if to approach him, but Harry shook his head slightly. The young man looked back at Tim and flashed a grin, tugged on his Yankees cap, and threw up a peace sign before moving on. Filled with goodwill, Tim saluted him back.

On the boardwalk, vendors were setting out their wares amidst the joggers and roller skaters. Families rode by on their bicycles, trailing Burleys behind them. It really was a wonderful day.

“This is getting too crowded,” Harry said when he finally got to Tim. “Where are you .. can we .. would you .. do you want to come back to my apartment?”

Tim laughed. Happy. “Well, we’re definitely not going back to mine! Roommate, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	11. Part 4 - Epilogue: Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy gets boy

I had to wait behind the Friday crowd. Tim greeted me at the door. He had clearly been watching out for me.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said, pulling me to my usual booth but someone was already sat there. 

I looked at Tim’s face, searched his eyes. They were clear and light. The anguish that had been there on Monday was gone. Something must have happened during the week. He hadn’t come home at all and just left cryptic messages saying he was ok.

We stopped at the booth.

“This is my husband. This is my Harry,” he said.

Harry stood and smiled shyly. “Very happy to meet you, Saoirse.”

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading this, that means you have come to the end of a most incredible journey. Writing this was a wild experience for me. You may have guessed from the varying chapter lengths and styles and POVs that I didn’t - and still don’t - know what I was doing with this whole writing thing. 
> 
> This started out in February as a fun little response to a meet-cute challenge from Moni after she saw a really awesome video of two random people playing piano at one of Paris’s busiest train stations. Morgan followed up with the photo that set the stage for Chapter 1. But those two young men wouldn’t stop interacting and over the next two months, the next three chapters came about. There was no story, just random cute and sweet fluffy glimpses into that life. Then I had the oddest dream of which I only remembered two seconds: Tim says Hello Harry and ends with him saying It’s only coffee. I wrote that bit for Moni and Morgan and they had so many questions about it that I started to really think about it. I think that’s the moment this became a story. 
> 
> If you know me at all, you’ll know that I need my happy endings. It took a couple of long hikes for me to figure out what could have happened between two people who clearly love each other so much and shouldn’t really have anything to block their HEA. It was hard work to write it out and have it all make sense.
> 
> And this why I’m writing such a long end note. I am a Reader. Always have been. I’ve always been so grateful to writers for sharing their stories. After this experiment, my respect for writers is uncharted. Particularly those who write multi-chapter stories and do it again and again and again. Truly, ALL THE KUDOS, for your time, energy, creativity. 
> 
> I don’t know that I can do this again, since I have no idea how I did it at all, in the first place. But I know that I couldn’t have done it without Moni (ForYou_InSilence) and Morgan (morganwolfe). I already thanked them in the beginning of this story but I really want to thank them again. From explaining Free Indirect Speech to helping me with separation anxiety from these characters. But mainly for being the best cheerleaders.
> 
> And to you all who stayed until the end. THANK YOU.
> 
> xxx  
> Cristinasea
> 
> Two guys play piano in a busy Paris train station  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n90fY2XS_jY
> 
> Bach Prelude No. 1 in C Major  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Ywzpw6ZMu3A


End file.
